Last Seen in Massilia (8 page)

He expelled a long sigh, then smiled wanly. “Surely, my friend, you’ve been wondering why I’ve asked you no questions about yourself, why I seem so curiously incurious about two Romans who bubbled up out of that inner moat? Here’s your answer. I don’t care who you are or where you came from. I don’t care if you’re here to murder the First Timouchos, or to sell Caesar’s secrets to that motley colony of Roman exiles who’ve washed up in Massilia. I’m simply glad for the company! You can’t imagine what it means to me, Gordianus, to sit here on this rooftop as the day wanes, sharing this splendid view and this splendid wine with another man, enjoying a civilized conversation. I feel…not so alone, not so invisible. As if all this were real, not merely a pretense.”

I was weary from the day’s ordeal and disquieted by the scapegoat’s story. I looked sidelong at Davus, who was gently snoring, and felt envious.

While we had talked, the sun had slipped beyond the watery horizon. It was the twilight hour. The line between sea and sky blurred and dissolved. Ethereal patches of silver hovered here and there on the face of the water. Nearer at hand, shadows deepened. Warmth still rose from the paving stones beneath our feet, but puffs of cooler air eddied from the tall trees on either side, shrouded deeply now in their own shadows.

“What’s that?” whispered Hieronymus, leaning forward, his voice urgent. “Down there…on the rock!”

Out of nowhere, two figures had appeared about halfway up the face of the Sacrifice Rock. Both were climbing upward; one was substantially ahead of the other, but the lower figure was gaining.

“Is that…a woman, do you think?” whispered Hieronymus. He meant the upper figure, who wore a dark, voluminous, hooded cloak that flapped in the wind to reveal what had to be a woman’s gown beneath. Her movements were halting and uncertain, as if she were weak or confused. Her hesitation allowed the lower figure to continue closing the gap between them. Her pursuer was certainly a man, for he was dressed in armor, though without a helmet. His dark hair was cut short and his limbs looked dark against the white stone and the pale blue of his billowing cape.

Beside me, Davus stirred and opened his eyes. “What…?”

“He’s chasing her,” I whispered.

“No, he’s trying to stop her,” Hieronymus said.

The twilight played tricks on my eyes. The harder I stared at the distant drama on the rock, the more difficult it was to discern the crabbed movements of the two figures. It was almost easier to watch their progress from the corner of my eye.

Davus leaned forward, suddenly alert. “That looks dangerous,” he offered.

The woman paused and turned her head to look behind her. The man was very close, almost near enough to grasp her foot.

“Did you hear that?” whispered Hieronymus.

“Hear what?” I said.

“She shrieked,” agreed Davus.

“That might have been a seagull,” I objected.

The woman put on a burst of speed. She gained the summit of the rock. Her cloak blew wildly about her. The man lost his footing and scrambled on the rock face, then recovered and scurried up after her. For an instant they merged into a single figure; then the woman vanished, and only the man remained, his figure outlined against the leaden sea beyond.

Davus gasped. “Did you see that? He pushed her!”

“No!” said Hieronymus. “He was trying to stop her. She jumped!”

The distant figure knelt and looked over the precipice for a long moment, his pale blue cape thrashing in the wind. Then he turned around and climbed down the rock face, not straight down the way he
had come but angling toward the nearest connecting section of the city wall. As soon as he was close enough he leaped from the rock onto the battlement platform. He stumbled when he landed and apparently hurt himself. He broke into a run, limping slightly and favoring his left leg. There was no one else on the platform, the Massilians having earlier moved all their men to the other side of the city to deal with the assault from Trebonius’s battering-ram.

The limping runner reached the nearest bastion tower and disappeared into the stairwell. The base of the tower was hidden from view. There was nothing more to see.

“Great Artemis! What do you make of that?” asked Hieronymus.

“He pushed her,” Davus insisted. “I saw him do it. Father-in-law, you know how keen my eyes are. She tried to cling to him. He pushed her away, over the edge.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Hieronymus. “You were asleep when I explained to Gordianus. That’s the Sacrifice Rock, also called the Suicide Rock. He didn’t chase her up the face of it. She went there to kill herself, and he tried to stop her. And he very nearly did—but not quite!” The hard lines around his mouth suddenly loosened. He covered his face. “Father!” he moaned. “Mother!”

Davus looked at me with a puzzled frown. How could I explain the scapegoat’s misery?

I was saved from the attempt by the arrival of a breathless slave, a young Gaul with a red face and unruly straw-colored hair. “Master!” he cried to Hieronymus. “Men downstairs! The First Timouchos himself, and the Roman proconsul! They demand to see…your visitors.” The slave cast a wary glance at Davus and me.

That was all the warning we had. The next moment, with a great tramping of feet, soldiers emerged from the stairway onto the rooftop terrace, their drawn swords gleaming dully in the gloaming.

Davus reacted at once. He jumped up from his chair, pulled me to my feet, pushed me to the far side of the terrace, then took a stance before me. He had no weapon, so he raised his fists. Back in his slave days, he had been trained to be a bodyguard. His trainers had done a good job.

“Look behind you, father-in-law,” he whispered. “Is there any way to jump from the roof?”

I looked over the short railing of the terrace. In the courtyard below I saw more soldiers with drawn swords.

“Not an option,” I said. I laid a hand on his shoulder. “Step back, Davus. And drop that boxer’s stance. You’ll only antagonize them. We’re the intruders here. We must trust to their mercy.”

I took a deep breath. Hieronymus had given me plenty to drink, but nothing to eat. I was light-headed.

The soldiers made no move to attack us. They fell into a line, swords drawn but lowered, and simply stared at us. Hieronymus flew into a frenzy.

“What are you doing here? This is the sacred residence of the scapegoat! You can’t bring arms here. You can’t enter at all without permission from the priests of Artemis!”

“How dare you invoke the goddess, you impious dog!” The booming voice came from the man who had evidently dispatched the soldiers up the stairs and who now followed behind them. His armor was
magnificent, as bright as a newly minted coin. A pale blue cape trailed behind. The horsehair crest on the helmet carried under his arm was likewise died pale blue. The color matched his eyes. They seemed too small, as did his thin nose and narrow mouth, for such a broad forehead and an even broader jaw. His long, silver hair was swept back like a mane.

“Apollonides!” said Hieronymus, uttering the name like a curse. Through gritted teeth, to me, he added, “The First Timouchos.”

Another man followed Apollonides, wearing the armor of a Roman commander. A copper disk on his breastplate was embossed with a lion’s head. I recognized him at once; but then, I knew he was in Massilia and was not surprised to see him. Would he recognize me? We had met only briefly, and months ago.

“By all the gods!” Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus put his hands on his hips and stared at me. “I don’t believe it. Gordianus the Finder! And who is this big fellow?”

“My son-in-law, Davus.”

Domitius nodded, pulling thoughtfully at the red beard across his chin. “When did I last see you? Don’t tell me—at Cicero’s house in Formiae. The month was Martius. You were on your way to Brundisium. I was on my way here. Ha! When the old men who hang about the market square told Apollonides that two Romans had dragged themselves out of the inner moat, he wanted to be sure they weren’t a couple of my men gone astray before he cut off their heads. A good thing I came along to identify you! Who’d have thought…?”

His brow darkened. I could read the change as clearly as if he’d spoken his thoughts aloud. He had finally remembered not just my name and my association with Cicero; he now recalled that I was Meto’s father. If Meto had come to Massilia, secretly loyal to Caesar but seeking a position with Caesar’s enemies, it was to Domitius that he would have offered his services. Had they met? What had passed between them? What did Domitius know of Meto’s whereabouts? Why was his expression suddenly so dark?

“Who is this fellow?” demanded Apollonides impatiently. Clearly,
from the way they conversed, he and Domitius considered each other to be of equal rank—one, supreme commander of the Massilian forces; the other, commander of the Roman troops in Massilia loyal to Pompey and the Roman Senate.

“His name is Gordianus, called the Finder. A Roman citizen. We’ve met before, once, briefly.” Domitius squinted and studied me as he might a map turned upside-down.

“Loyal to Caesar or to Pompey?” Apollonides looked at me more as if I were a strange animal; tame or feral?

“That’s a very good question,” said Domitius.

“And how did he come to be in the city?”

“Another good question.”

Together they stared at me.

I crossed my hands before me and took a deep breath. “I hate to change the subject,” I said slowly, “but we’ve just witnessed something very alarming. Over…there.” I pointed toward the Sacrifice Rock.

“What are you talking about?” Apollonides glared at me. “Answer my question! How did you get into the city?”

“A woman and a man—a soldier, to judge by his clothing—just climbed that finger of rock. The three of us sat here and watched them. One of them went over the edge. The other ran off.”

Now I had his attention. “What? Someone jumped from the Sacrifice Rock?”

“The woman.”

“No one is allowed to climb the Sacrifice Rock. And suicide without approval is strictly forbidden in Massilia!” barked Apollonides.

“So is murder, I should think.”

“What?”

“The man pushed her!” Davus explained.

I cleared my throat. “Actually, there’s some disagreement about that.”

Apollonides stared at us through narrowed eyes, then waved to one of the soldiers. “You there, take some men and go to the Sacrifice
Rock. Don’t set foot on it, but examine the area all around. Look for signs that anyone ventured onto the rock. Ask questions. Find out if anyone saw a man and a woman climbing it.”

“The woman wore a dark cloak,” I offered. “The man was in armor, without a helmet. He had a pale blue cape…rather like yours, Timouchos.”

Apollonides was taken aback. “One of my officers? I don’t believe it. You’ve fabricated the whole episode to avoid answering my questions!”

“No, Timouchos.”

“First Timouchos!” he insisted. His red face contrasted strongly with his pale blue cape. I saw a frazzled man at the end of a trying day, without an atom of patience left.

“Of course, First Timouchos. You ask how we came to be here. The fact is, Trebonius’s men dug a tunnel under the city walls. It was to come out near the main gate—”

“I knew it!” Apollonides pounded a fist into his open palm. “I told you, Domitius, the battering-ram assault this morning was only a diversion. Trebonius knows better than to think he can bring down the walls of Massilia with such a toy. While we were distracted, he meant to send a smaller force through a tunnel and take the main gate. Is that what you’re saying, Finder?”

“Exactly, First Timouchos.”

“The whirl pool that was seen, and the drop in the water level in the inner moat—you said it must be due to a leak, a fault in our own earth-works, Domitius!”

Now Domitius’s face flushed red, clashing with his copper-colored beard. “I’m not an engineer. I only suggested the idea off the top of my head.”

“Instead, it was just as
I
thought—Trebonius has been planning all along to tunnel his way in. I knew it! That’s why I dug that trench and pumped it full of water, to thwart just such an attempt. And it worked! Tell me I’m right, Finder.” He beamed at me. Now I was his friend, the bearer of good news.

I swallowed a lump in my throat. “The tunnel was full of soldiers,
waiting to emerge the moment the sappers broke through. We waited for hours. We could hear the boom of the battering-ram farther down the walls…” I lowered my eyes. “Suddenly, the tunnel was flooded. A rush of water came though, carrying everything before it.”

“Perfect!” exclaimed Apollonides. “All those soldiers flushed through the tunnel like rats through a Roman sewer!” Domitius scowled at this, but said nothing. “But you, Finder—how did you survive?”

“My son-in-law pulled me into a cavity in the ceiling of the tunnel. We waited until the flooding settled, then swam out. As far as I know, we were the only survivors.”

“I think the gods must like you, Finder.” Apollonides looked sidelong at Hieronymus. “No wonder the wretched scapegoat scooped you up and fetched you home with him. He thinks you’ll bring him good luck.”

“You have no right to be here!” Hieronymus suddenly shrieked. “The scapegoat’s house is sacred. Your presence here is sacrilege, Apollonides.”

“Fool! You don’t know what you’re talking about. I have the right to enter any house that may be harboring enemies of Massilia.” Apollonides returned his gaze to me. “Is that the case here, Finder? What were you doing in that tunnel with Trebonius’s men, if not taking part in an armed invasion of the city?”

“First Timouchos, look at me. I’m an old man. I’m not a soldier! I’m not a partisan for either side, and neither is Davus. We’ve traveled overland from Rome. We spent one night in Trebonius’s camp. I wanted to enter the city, and I saw a way to do it. Davus and I disguised ourselves and slipped into the ranks. Trebonius didn’t know. He’d have been furious if he found out. My business here in Massilia is neither military nor political. It’s personal.”

“And what exactly is this ‘personal’ business?”

“My son, Meto, was last seen in Massilia.” I looked sidelong at Domitius, whose expression remained enigmatic. “I’ve come to look for him.”

“A missing child?” The idea appeared to strike a sympathetic chord in Apollonides, who nodded slowly. “What do you think, Domitius? You know this fellow.”

“Not that well.” Domitius crossed his arms.

“Proconsul,” I said, addressing Domitius with the formal title to which he aspired, knowing he fancied himself, and not Caesar, to be the Roman Senate’s legally appointed governor of Gaul. “If Cicero were here, he’d vouch for me. You and I ate together at his table in Formiae; we both slept under his roof. Did you know that he once called me ‘the most honest man in Rome’?” The quotation was accurate. I saw no need to add that Cicero had not necessarily intended it as a compliment.

Domitius tilted his head back and breathed in sharply through his nostrils. “I’ll take responsibility for these two, Apollonides.”

“Are you sure?”

Domitius hesitated for a heartbeat. “Yes.”

“Good. That’s settled, then.” Apollonides yawned. “By Hypnos, I’m tired. And hungry! Will this wretched day never end? I’d hoped for a moment’s peace, but now I suppose I must go and check the condition of the inner moat to make sure it’s still holding water.”

He turned to leave. Some of his soldiers broke from their ranks to precede him down the stairs. At the second step he stopped and looked back. “Oh, Finder—if the story you tell is true, I suppose you had the last laugh on Trebonius today, infiltrating his ranks and getting through that tunnel alive. We had a good laugh at him, too. That battering-ram he sent against the city wall? We finally got the better of it. Some of my soldiers managed to lower a rope noose, capture the head of the ram, and haul it up. A good thing; all that booming was giving me a headache. You should have seen the reaction on that hillside where Trebonius and his engineers gather. They were furious! That battering-ram shall make a fine trophy. Perhaps, after we’ve broken the siege and sent Trebonius packing, I’ll display it on a pedestal in the market square.”

He turned and took a few more steps.

“First Timouchos!” I called. “The…incident…on the Sacrifice Rock. The soldier and the woman—”

“The murder!” insisted Davus.

“You heard me dispatch my men,” snapped Apollonides, stopping again. “I shall look into the matter. It’s no longer your concern.”

“But I heard you order them not to set foot on the rock. If you won’t even allow them to examine the place where—”

“No one may set foot on the Sacrifice Rock! That includes you, Finder.” He gave me a penetrating look. “The priests of Artemis sanctified it during the same ritual that invested the scapegoat. From the time that a scapegoat is invested until the day he fulfills his destiny, the Sacrifice Rock is sacred ground, forbidden to all. The next person to set foot on it, and not until the priests of Artemis say so, will be your friend Hieronymus here. That will also be the
last
time he sets foot on it.” He shot a sardonic glance at our host, then turned, quickly descended the steps, and disappeared, his soldiers following.

“Not a bad fellow, for a Greek,” said Domitius under his breath.

“Where are
your
soldiers, Proconsul?” asked Hieronymus suspiciously.

“My bodyguards are outside the house,” said Domitius. “Apollonides wouldn’t let me bring them in. He’s that pious, at least—no foreigners bearing arms in the scapegoat’s house. Don’t worry. They’ll stay where they are until I tell them otherwise. By Hercules, I’m hungry! I don’t suppose, to show a bit of hospitality….”

Hieronymus stared back at him glumly for a long moment, then clapped his hands and instructed a slave to bring food. Hieronymus then withdrew, sulking, into the house.

“I’ll eat far better here than I would at Apollonides’s house,” Domitius confided. “This fellow gets all the best cuts. There’s a priest of Artemis who sees to it. The city’s facing serious shortages, but you’d never know it from the way they stuff this goose.”

Lamps were brought onto the terrace, then trays of food, along with little tripod tables. Seeing the feast made me dizzy from hunger. There were steaming slices of pork glazed with honey and aniseed, a pâté of
sweetbreads and soft cheese, a gingery fava bean puree, a barley soup flavored with dill and whole onions, and little must cakes speckled with raisins.

Domitius ate like a starving man, popping fingers into his mouth and sucking them clean. Davus, seeing such manners, made no pretense to refinement and did likewise. I was tormented by hunger but hardly able to eat, my stomach seized by sudden anxiety about Meto. What did Domitius know? I tried a few times to raise the subject, but Domitius refused to respond until he had eaten his fill. What was he playing at?

At last he sat back, took a long swallow of wine, and let out a burp. “The best meal I’ve had in months!” he declared. “Almost worth the trip to this godforsaken city, don’t you think?”

“I came here—”

“Yes, I know. Not for the food! You came to look for your son.”

“Do you know Meto?” I asked quietly.

“Oh, yes.” Domitius stroked his red beard and was silent for a long time, content to observe my discomfort. Why did he look so smug? “Why have you come here looking for him, Gordianus?”

“I received a message in Rome, sent anonymously, claiming to come from Massilia.” I touched the pouch that hung from my belt, felt the small wooden cylinder inside, and wondered if the parchment it contained had survived the flood. “The message said that Meto…was dead. That he’d died in Massilia.”